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EX  L1BRIS 


THE 

PADRE'S  LITTLE 
CARETAKER 

(  Second  Edition ) 


A  Romance  of  the  Carmel  Mission 


BY 

SARAH  RITCHIE  HEATH 


SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL. 

THE  JAMES  H.  BARRY  COMPANY 

1913 


COPYRIGHT,    1913, 

BY 
SARAH  RITCHIE   HEATH 


TO 

MY  SISTERS 


37680G 


THE  PADRE'S  LITTLE 
CARETAKER 

Her  name  was  Carmelita,  as  had 
been  her  mother's  and  grandmother's 
before  her.  It  could  hardly  have 
been  otherwise,  for,  like  them,  she 
had  first  seen  the  light  of  day  in  the 
little  cottage  under  the  pear  trees 
which  Padre  Junipero  Serra,  of 
blessed  memory,  had  planted  with 
his  own  hand,  at  Carmel — his  favor 
ite  mission.  For  generations  her 
mother's  family  had  handed  down 
from  daughter  to  daughter  the  office 
of  caretaker  of  the  church  and  its 
holy  relics.  And  Carmelita  had  al 
ways  known  that  one  day  her  turn 
would  come.  She  would  marry,  of 
course,  when  old  enough;  but  mar 
riage  had  never  interfered  with  this 
sacred  office — nor  with  much  else  in 
the  Carmel  valley.  Pedro,  Carme- 
lita's  father,  had  herded  cattle  in  the 
adjacent  meadows,  and  fished  in  the 
bay  of  Carmelo.  But  one  day — 

5 


when  Carmelita  was  but  seven — he 
was  drowned.  After  that  the  small 
stipend  of  the  caretaker — half  of 
each  dime  charged  for  admission — 
became  the  sole  support  of  the  widow 
and  child,  and  visitors  were  scarce, 
except  on  those  occasions  when  the 
guest  at  del  Monte  made  the  pil 
grimage. 

Carmelita  had  been  cradled  in  the 
sunshine,  near  the  stairway  leading  to 
the  belfry.  As  soon  as  she  could  tod 
dle  she  had  gravely  pattered  after  the 
strangers  whom  her  mother  preceded 
up  the  stair  and  through  the  church; 
thus  early  fitting  herself  for  the 
duties  which  were  soon  to  devolve 
upon  her.  She  was  a  shy,  silent 
child,  but  in  many  respects  pre 
cocious  ;  blessed  with  a  retentive 
memory,  riotous  imagination  and 
keen  powers  of  observation. 

One  day,  when  sightseers  were 
few,  Carmelita  suggested  a  game. 

"Let's  play,"  she  said  to  her 
mother,  "that  I  am  the  caretaker  and 
you  the  visitor.  You  must  ask  me 
all  sorts  of  silly  questions,  and  I'll 

6 


show  you  the  church  and  the  relics." 
She  played  her  part  so  well  that 
on  the  following  day  her  mother 
entrusted  her  with  the  keys.  For  a 
time  the  woman  and  child  shared  the 
office,  but  the  child  brought  more 
dimes  to  the  family  exchequer  than 
did  the  woman,  and  gradually  the 
full  responsibility  fell  on  the  little 
girl's  shoulders — no  heavy  burden, 
however,  even  for  a  child  of  ten. 

When  the  little  caretaker  was  not 
on  duty,  she  sought  playmates  among 
the  swallows,  who  built  their  nests 
in  the  eaves  of  the  church,  and 
among  the  squirrels  and  lizards, 
which,  like  herself,  played  hide-and- 
seek  with  the  shadows,  lurking  in 
the  ruins  of  the  old  adobes.  And, 
like  them,  she  lived  in  blissful  ignor 
ance  of  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the 
devil — until,  one  day,  she  ate  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge. 

She  received  the  fatal  apple  at  the 
hand  of  a  stranger — as  beautiful  as 
the  angel  Gabriel.  When  she  had 
eaten,  she  looked  back  upon  her  child 
hood  as  a  thing  of  the  past — although 

7 


she  had  counted  less  than  fifteen 
summers. 

She  was  leaning  against  a  frag 
ment  of  adobe — a  blackened  ruin  of 
the  dwellings  of  the  padres — when 
Bedford  first  saw  her. 

She  did  not  observe  his  approach, 
for  her  eyes  were  steadily  fixed  on 
Point  Lobos,  on  the  further  side  of 
Carmelo  Bay.  She  was  idly  dream 
ing — of  what  she  could  not  have  told. 
But  Bedford  was  a  poet,  and  as  he  cu 
riously  studied  the  unconscious  face  of 
the  dreamer,  he  knew,  by  the  divine 
instinct  within  himself,  that  she  too 
saw  the  wonderful  scheme  of  color 
in  the  blue  of  the  Monterey  sky,  the 
deeper  blue  of  its  mountains,  and  the 
yet  deeper  blue  of  its  waters.  He 
knew  that  she  was  listening  to  a 
song  in  the  humming  of  the  bees;  in 
the  murmuring  of  the  waves  on  the 
white  sands — a  song  of  love,  perhaps, 
for  some  country  swain  who  could 
see  in  a  yellow  primrose,  "a  yellow 
primrose  .  .  .  nothing  more." 

"'After  all,"  he  reflected,  "I  believe 
she  is  but  a  child.  But  when  she  is 

8 


old  enough,  I  suppose  she'll  marry  a 
lazy  Mexican,  or" — he  studied  the 
girl  more  narrowly — "an  Indian." 

The  small,  willowy  figure  and  olive 
skin  might  have  been  heritages  from 
either  Mexican  or  Indian.  The  color 
of  her  far-seeing  eyes  was  hidden  by 
heavy  lashes;  but  the  hair,  which  fell 
unfettered  by  pin  or  ribbon,  like  a 
straight,  black  mantle  to  the  hem  of 
her  frock,  inclined  him  to  the  belief 
that  she  was  an  Indian. 

As  a  natural  sequence  to  this 
thought,  his  mind  reverted  to  the 
ruins  around  him.  He  tried  to  pic 
ture  to  himself  the  church  as  it  was 
more  than  a  century  ago,  thronged  by 
Indians  attracted  thither  by  the  lights 
on  the  altar,  the  perfume  of  burning 
incense,  the  sweet-toned  bells,  the 
chanted  Te  Deum,  and,  perhaps  above 
all,  by  the  rich  vestments  of  the  pad 
res.  But,  standing  outside  the  closed 
door,  he  found  this  sudden  transition 
from  the  nineteenth  century  too  se 
vere  a  strain  upon  his  imagination. 

Hat  in  hand,  he  approached  Car- 
melita.  The  sunlight  turned  his  hair 

9 


into  rings  of  bronze,  and  touched 
hers  with  a  purple  light,  like  the 
bloom  on  the  grape.  Their  eyes  met ; 
his  as  blue  as  the  wide,  cloudless  sky 
— hers  as  black  as  the  night  which 
must  inevitably  follow  day. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  bare 
headed  before  her,  as  if  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  princess.  It  was  a  moment 
too  long.  He  had  crept  into  her 
dream  of  rapture,  and  the  vague  es 
sence  shaped  itself. 

Bedford  signified  his  wish  to  en 
ter  the  church.  Carmelita,  still  more 
than  half  in  the  clouds,  mechanical 
ly  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
preceded  him  through  the  low  broad 
doorway.  He  registered.  She  then 
led  him  to  the  baptistry,  where  she 
exhibited  in  a  perfunctory  way  a 
comparatively  modern  baptismal  font, 
carved  out  of  white  onyx.  He  was 
disappointed. 

"This  is  not  the  original  font,"  he 
said;  "that  was  carved  out  of  a  solid 
piece  of  sandstone.  What's  become 
of  it?" 

Carmelita  shook  her  head. 

10 


"I  don't  know,"  she  answered. 
"Nobody  ever  asked  me  that  before. 
Maybe  they've  taken  it  to  San  Carlos, 
in  Monterey — where  they've  taken 
nearly  everything." 

Her  momentary  self-consciousness 
had  passed;  her  tongue  was  loosened. 
This  was  the  one  real  grievance  in 
her  placid  life.  In  some  respects  hu 
man  nature  is  the  same  the  world 
over,  and  craves  sympathy  as  the  only 
balm  for  a  real  or  fancied  injury. 
This,  Bedford  gave  in  full  measure. 

In  her  mother's  eyes  the  case  had 
its  sordid  aspect,  for  at  San  Carlos 
the  entrance  fee  was  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar,  and  only  a  dime  at  Carmel. 
This  did  not  trouble  Carmelita,  who 
had  little  use  for  money.  But  her 
spirit  rose  in  indignation  against 
what  she  regarded  as  injustice.  Ven 
eration  for  the  priests  who  had  au 
thorized  this  transfer  of  the  church's 
properties  prevented  her  from  desig 
nating  it  by  such  an  ugly  word  as 
theft,  but  her  soul  was  in  revolt. 

"Down  there,"  she  said,  pointing 
in  the  direction  of  Monterey,  "they 

11 


keep  the  beautiful  vestments  which 
the  blessed  padre,  Junipero  Serra, 
wore.  They  are  made  of  cloth  of 
gold — finer  than  kings  wear — and 
some  of  them  are  embroidered  with 
roses  and  lilies  and  real  pearls.  One 
of  the  chasubles  has  amethysts  and 
topazes  sewed  on  it." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this,  little 
one?"  asked  Bedford. 

"Anybody  can  see  them  who  pays 
two  bits,"  answered  Carmelita.  "But 
sometimes  they  let  the  Bishop,  or  vis 
iting  priests,  wear  them — because,  you 
know,  the  church  isn't  rich  enough 
to  buy  others." 

"What  vandalism!"  muttered  Bed 
ford. 

As  one  by  one  Carmelita  recalled 
the  holy  relics,  stored  in  locked 
presses  down  at  San  Carlos,  she 
waxed  eloquent.  She  touched  with 
less  ardor  upon  the  silver  candle 
sticks  and  censer,  the  holy-water 
sprinkler  and  other  furniture  of  the 
sanctuary.  But  the  robes  in  which 
Padre  Serra  had  officiated  at  the  al 
tar  seemed  to  his  little  caretaker  a 

12 


part  of  his  holy  person.  It  may  be 
that  underlying  her  veneration  for  the 
padre  was  a  love  of  finery — an  unde 
veloped  instinct  of  her  womanhood, 
awakened  by  the  richness  and  beau 
ty  of  the  vestments. 

Bedford  had  seen  all  of  these 
things,  but  the  girl's  enthusiasm  in 
terested  him,  and  he  led  her  on  to 
describe  each  in  detail;  fanning  her 
indignation  till  it  culminated  in  an 
outburst  of  wrath  that  they  should 
have  robbed  Padre  Junipero  of  the 
very  stole  in  which  they  had  found 
him — more  than  a  hundred  years  af 
ter  he  had  been  buried. 

"But,"  he  protested,  as  he  might 
have  teased  an  excited  child,  "for 
Carmel  to  be  jealous  of  San  Carlos 
is  for  a  daughter  to  be  jealous  of  her 
mother.  Of  course  you  know  that 
the  little  church  in  Monterey  is  the 
mother  church  and  'Carmer  was 
originally  called  'San  Carlos  del  Rio 
Carmelo/  " 

But  Carmelita's  jealous  prejudice 
was  the  growth  of  a  lifetime,  and  was 
not  to  be  uprooted  by  a  half-hearted 

13 


protest.      Her    attitude   suggested   to 
Bedford  a  thought — an  inspiration. 

Junipero  Serra  was  manifestly  the 
idol  and  hero  of  this  imaginative,  im 
pressionable  child.  Through  her  he 
would  create  an  interest  in  the  Cali 
fornia  missions  which  were  rapidly 
passing  out  of  the  world  of  romance 
into  sober  history.  Her  lips  should 
publish  advance  sheets  of  his  "Story 
of  the  Padres" — yet  in  embryo. 
With  his  finger  on  her  keen  sensibil 
ities,  he  would  find  the  pulse  of  the 
people. 

Bedford  was  a  rapid  thinker.  In 
a  moment  he  had  evolved  a  plan. 
Meantime,  he  had  lost  nothing  of 
Carmelita's  plaintive  cry  against  in 
justice.  Advancing  to  the  "sanctuary 
on  the  Gospel  side,  fronting  the  altar 
of  our  Lady  of  Seven  Dolors,"  he 
pointed  downward  where,  under  the 
floor,  lay  the  blessed  remains  of  the 
Fray  Presidente  and  his  coadjutors, 
Padres  Crespi,  Lopez  and  Lasuen. 

"What  does  it  matter,"  he  sooth 
ingly  said,  "what  becomes  of  the 


14 


clothes,  when  they  have  left  you  his 
body?" 

Carmelita  looked  at  him  in  amaze 
ment.  She  was  undergoing  a  new 
experience,  a  reversal  of  the  usual 
order. 

"Were  you  ever  here  before?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  he  answered. 

"Then  how  did  you  know  where 
he  \vas  buried?" 

Bedford  smiled. 

"I  know  a  good  many  things,  and 
if  you  will  let  me,  I'm  going  to  teach 
you  some  of  them.  But  first  tell  me 
your  name." 

"Carmelita."     She  said. 

"Well,  Carmelita—"  his  voice  lin 
gered  on  the  syllables  as  he  deliber 
ated.  He  then  repeated  it.  "Well, 
"Carmelita,  if  you'll  help  me,  we'll 
give  back  to  Padre  Junipero  all  that 
belongs  to  him."  He  pointed  to  the 
alms  box — a  mute  appeal  to  strang 
ers  to  save  the  dear  old  church  from 
irretrievable  ruin.  "We'll  fill  that 
box  with  gold — you  and  I — and  we'll 
make  Carmel  so  beautiful  that  the 

15 


priests  will  remember — what  they  ap 
pear  to  have  forgotten — that  Carmel, 
and  not  San  Carlos,  was  the  holy 
Junipero's  best  beloved  church.  And 
strangers  from  all  over  the  world 
shall  come  to  see  it,  and  you — its  lit 
tle  caretaker — shall  become  famous 
throughout  all  the  missions." 

Carmelita's  eyes  shone  like  stars  as 
she  listened  to  Bedford's  glowing 
prophecies.  In  a  voice  subdued  b] 
awe  to  a  half  whisper  she  asked: 
"Are  you  a  king?" 

"No,  child;  they  don't  have  kings 
in  this  country;  at  least  not  the  kind 
that  you  mean.  But  come  now  and 
show  me  over  the  church.  What  are 
all  these  hideous  benches  in  the 
nave?" 

"For  the  Sunday-school,"  she  re 
plied.  "About  two  dozen  children 
come  every  Sunday  from  Carmel 
City."  She  pointed  toward  the  little 
fishing  settlement  on  the  beach.  "But 
I  hate  Sunday-school!  Do  you  think 
that's  a  sin?" 

"No,"  answered  Bedford,  "I  don't 


16 


think    it's    a    sin.      What    does    your 
priest  say  about  it?" 

"We  haven't  any  parish  priest. 
Once  a  year — on  the  feast  of  San 
Carlos — a  priest  comes  from  Mon 
terey  to  hold  service  and  confess  us. 
On  other  feast  days  we  go  to  Mon 
terey." 

He   looked   at   the   innocent   young 
face  before  him  and  wondered   with 
what    possible    sin    she    could   charge 
herself.    Presently  he  asked  her.   The 
question    obviously   embarrassed    her, 
but  she  evasively  answered: 
"All  sorts  of  little  things." 
"And  what  big  thing,  Carmelita?" 
She  wistfully   sought  his   eye,  and 
then   confessed   to  this   friend   of  an 
hour  the  sin  which  she  had  concealed 
from  the  priests.     Not  that  she  had 
dreaded   penance,  but   she   loved  the 
sin. 

"I  sometimes  play  church." 
She    said    this    with    the    faltering 
voice  of  one  confessing  a  crime.    Her 
confessor   could    scarcely   suppress    a 
smile,  but  he  gravely  answered: 

17 


"I'm  sure  there's  nothing  sinful  in 
that." 

"But  I  make  believe  that  the  church 
is  full  of  Indians,  and  that  I  am  the 
dear  padre.  And  I  read  the  prayers 
out  of  his  book,  just  as  he  did." 

"Can  you  read  Latin?"  asked  Bed 
ford,  in  surprise. 

"No,  not  really;  but  it  sounds  just 
like  what  the  priests  read." 

"Read  some  for  me,  that  I  may 
hear  how  it  sounds,  because" — Bed 
ford's  conscience  felt  no  qualm — "if 
you  haven't  really  said  the  words,  of 
course  you  haven't  committed  any 
sin." 

Carmelita  advanced  to  the  chancel 
rail,  knelt  for  a  moment,  and  crossed 
herself — her  lips  moving  in  silent 
prayer,  which  was  not  "make  be 
lieve."  Then,  fitting  a  key  to  a  pad 
lock,  she  opened  a  gate  which  she 
closed  behind  her.  Again,  before  the 
altar,  she  prostrated  herself  in  silent 
prayer.  When,  for  the  second  time, 
she  rose  from  her  knees,  she  rever 
ently  took  in  her  hand  the  exquisite 
ly  illuminated  missal  which  bore  un- 

18 


doubted  marks  of  authenticity,  as 
Bedford's  practiced  eye  could  discern 
even  at  that  distance.  He  could  not 
but  commend  the  church's  sagacity 
in  placing  its  treasures  under  lock 
and  key  at  San  Carlos,  when  he  saw 
this  priceless  treasure  entrusted  to  a 
child  in  a  roofless  ruin. 

Carmelita  placed  her  ringer  on  the 
faded  green  ribbon  which  extended 
beyond  the  margin,  casually  explain 
ing  that  each  season  in  the  Christian 
year  had  its  own  color.  Then,  with 
rare  imitative  skill  that  might  have 
deceived  any  but  a  classical  scholar, 
she  intoned  after  the  fashion  of  the 
priests,  substituting  meaningless  words 
and  phrases  for  the  written  prayers. 

Bedford,  assuring  her  that  the 
words  meant  nothing,  absolved  her. 
But  in  his  heart  he  believed  that  those 
prayers  had  ascended  straight  from 
her  pure  young  soul  to  the  throne  of 
grace. 

He  pointed  to  a  well  preserved  in 
scription  on  the  wall,  in  the  Chapel 
of  the  Crucifixion. 

"What  does  that  say,   Carmelita?" 

19 


This  time  she  did  not  confess  her 
ignorance,  but,  as  if  reading,  she 
slowly  repeated  in  liquid  Spanish  the 
words  that  she  had  learned  by  rote: 

"O  Heart  of  Jesus,  Thou  that  art 
always  glowing  and  radiant,  inspire 
and  enlighten  my  heart  with  Thy  di 
vine  love." 

"Angels  and  saints,  let  us  praise 
the  Heart  of  Jesus." 

Thus  he  led  her  on  to  tell  him,  in 
her  simple  fashion,  much  that  he  al 
ready  knew;  giving  her  in  exchange 
casual  glimpses  of  a  world  of  which 
she  knew  almost  nothing — the  world 
whence  had  come  the  padres. 

Progress  through  the  church  was 
slow;  for  out  of  the  grim,  weather- 
beaten  walls  Bedford  was  carving  a 
romance,  and  as  he  passed  from 
chancel  to  belfry,  every  stone  had 
something  to  say  to  him. 

Before  leaving  the  church  he 
showed  Carmelita  a  shining  gold 
coin. 

"This  is  a  luck-piece,"  he  said, 
dropping  it  into  the  mite  box.  "Will 

20 


you  help  me  to  fill  that  box  with 
gold?" 

She  had  never  owned  a  gold  piece 
in  her  life — had  rarely  handled  one — 
and  the  sight  of  his  money  made  her 
feel  more  helpless  than  if  he  had 
asked  her  to  carry  the  brick  and 
mortar  wherewith  to  rebuild  the 
church. 

"How  can  I  help  you?"  she  asked, 
dejectedly. 

"Leave  that  to  me,  child,"  he  an 
swered.  "But  you  must  let  me  come 
here  often — every  day,  if  I  choose — 
that  I  may  teach  you  to  help  me." 

Of  course  he  might  come  every 
day,  she  assured  him.  The  church 
was  open  to  everyone ;  and  surely  he 
— who  had  paid  the  entrance  fee 
many,  many  times  over — might  come 
as  often  and  stay  as  long  as  he 
pleased.  Every  trace  of  dejection 
had  passed. 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  your  first 
lesson  now,  Carmelita." 

Bedford  drew  from  his  pocket-book 
a  fine  photograph  of  Junipero  Serra. 
It  was  a  beautiful,  inspiring  face ; 

21 


spiritual,  tender,  strong  of  purpose, 
radiant  with  hope,  but  sad  withal. 

As  he  minutely  examined  it  he 
marveled  not  at  the  adoration  of 
Catholic  California  for  this  man — the 
dauntless  pioneer,  the  gentle  leader, 
the  zealous,  untiring  priest.  He  won 
dered  only  that  the  State  at  large  did 
not  open  its  coffers  to  canonize  ap 
propriately  the  memory  of  the  sainted 
padre,  and  proclaim  him  throughout 
the  world  the  hero  that  he  was.  His 
purpose  strengthened  with  these  re 
flections. 

He  handed  the  picture  to  Carmel- 
ita. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  this?"  he 
asked. 

The  girl's  delight  had  in  it  a  cer 
tain  pathos.  It  was  manifest  that 
she  had  not  been  the  recipient  of 
many  gifts. 

"For  me?"  she  incredulously  ex 
claimed.  "For  me — to  keep  for  my 
own  !  The  dear  padre !" 

"Yes,  for  your  very  own,"  an 
swered  Bedford.  "This  is  your  les 
son  book.  I  want  you  to  study  that 

22 


face  every  day,  until  you  know  every 
line  in  it ;  until  you  can  shut  your 
eyes  and  see  the  padre  standing  at 
that  altar,  even  as  the  Indians  used 
to  see  him.  I'm  going  to  make  you 
work  hard — harder  than  you  ever  did 
in  your  life.  But  it  won't  seem  so 
hard  when  you  remember  that  you 
are  Junipero's  little  caretaker,  and 
that  you  are  working  for  the  dear 
padre's  sake — you  and  I  together." 

The  glad  light  in  the  black  eyes, 
which  again  met  the  blue,  was  not 
all  for  the  dear  padre's  sake.  A  new 
world  had  suddenly  disclosed  itself 
to  Carmelita. 

Shortly  after  this  episode,  a  young 
girl,  with  unbound  hair  of  dense 
blackness,  touched  here  and  there 
with  a  purple  light,  stood  in  the  nave 
of  the  church,  amid  men  and  women 
whose  rich  apparel  was  in  striking 
contrast  to  her  simple,  almost  rude, 
garb. 

At  the  top  of  a  dark,  narrow  stair 
way,  winding  up  through  a  small 
tower,  a  workman  was  softly  chip 
ping  fragments  of  adobe  from  a 

23 


crumbling  arch  which  once  must  have 
led  into  the  choir,  of  which  not  a 
vestige  remained.  To  those  who  had 
not  observed  the  man,  the  light  "tap- 
tap"  of  his  hammer  suggested  only 
that  a  woodpecker  was  helping  time 
in  its  work  of  demolition. 

Under  the  guidance  of  the  little 
caretaker,  the  visitors  had  made  the 
conventional  tour  of  inspection  and 
now  stood  near  the  hidden  tomb  of 
the  church's  founder;  the  men  bare 
headed,  the  women  reverently  silent. 

A  voice  broke  the  stillness :  the 
gentle,  melodious  voice  of  the  padre's 
caretaker. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  about  Fray  Juni- 
pero  Serra?"  she  asked  in  persuasive 
tones.  "How  he  came  to  be  the 
Presidente  of  all  the  Missions?" 

Then,  as  if  inspired,  she  told  the 
oft-told  tale  as  it  had  never  been  told 
before.  She  carried  her  hearers  with 
her  in  rapid  flight  from  the  old 
world  to  the  new,  from  the  land  of 
the  Aztecs  to  the  Californias.  She 
sketched  the  life  of  Serra  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  depicting  the  last 

24 


scenes  with  thrilling  pathos.  There 
was  a  poetic  sentiment,  a  graceful 
imagery,  a  literary  touch  in  her  sim 
ple,  direct  language  that  electrified 
her  audience.  The  purity  of  her 
English  was  in  itself  amazing;  it 
was  so  strangely  at  variance  with  her 
colloquial  speech. 

When  she  had  brought  her  audi 
ence  back  to  the  nineteenth  century, 
to  Father  Casanova's  recent  discov 
ery  of  the  long-lost  graves,  she  re 
ferred  to  his  noble  appeal  for  the 
restoration  of  the  church;  then 
paused.  The  well-bred  assemblage 
knew  better  than  to  break  silence  in 
the  midst  of  a  theme.  On  the  con 
trary,  they  waited  expectantly;  even 
resisting  an  impulse  to  exchange 
glances,  lest  this  prodigy  should 
miraculously  disappear.  But  the  si 
lence  frightened  her.  She  became 
self-conscious,  then  terrified.  She 
turned  to  flee. 

"Tap-tap;'  softly  sounded  in  the 
archway. 

The  absorbed  spectators  did  not 
heed  the  slight  noise  any  more  than 

25 


they  had  the  cessation  of  it.  But  the 
central  figure  of  the  group  raised  her 
eyes,  and  arrested  her  flight. 

Once  more  the  sweet,  persuasive 
voice  rang  through  the  church — this 
time  in  pleading  accents.  When  she 
again  paused,  the  work  of  restoration 
had  begun;  a  shower  of  silver  and 
gold  fell  into  the  mite  box.  With 
the  jingle  of  coin,  the  spellbound  men 
and  women  found  their  tongues.  Ex 
clamations  of  wonder  and  praise  burst 
from  their  lips,  and  they  plied  the  girl 
with  questions. 

Whence  had  come  her  knowledge, 
her  skill?  But  these  queries  elicited 
no  response.  Cinderella,  shorn  of 
her  splendor,  crouching  over  the 
ashes,  was  not  more  humble  than  was 
the  little  orator,  descended  from  the 
rostrum.  Again  she  had  become  shy 
little  Carmelita — nothing  more. 

"Who  told  you  this  tale,  child?" 
asked  one,  more   persistent  than  the 
rest. 

"Tap — tap,"  softly  resounded  from 
the  archway. 

"I  was  born  here,"  answered  Car- 

26 


melita.  And  no  persuasion  could  in 
duce  further  explanation. 

The  strangers  took  leave  of  her  at 
the  church  door. 

"We'll  come  again,"  they  said, 
"and  bring  others  with  us.  Padre 
Junipero's  tomb  shall  be  the  best  pre 
served  of  all  the  missions — thanks  to 
his  little  caretaker." 

Bedford,  yet  in  his  workman's 
blouse,  sought  Carmelita  in  the  shad 
ows  of  the  adobes.  He  found  her  as 
he  had  first  seen  her,  leaning  against 
the  broken  wall ;  but  this  time  he  did 
not  steal  upon  her  unawares.  She 
was  eagerly  awaiting  him,  as  she  had 
awaited  him  many  times  in  the  inter 
val,  but  flushed  and  tremulous  under 
the  excitement  of  success. 

"Bravo,  Carmelita,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Bravo,  my  girl !" 

And  then,  because  they  were  young 
and  human,  they  forgot,  for  a  mo 
ment,  the  sainted  padre — who  had 
been  dead  for  more  than  a  century. 

The  visitors  kept  their  word. 
Again,  and  yet  again,  they  came  and 
brought  others  with  them:  all  leav- 

27 


ing  in  the  mite  box  substantial  token. 
The  first  day  was  but  a  prelude  to 
many  that  followed. 

Carmelita's  fame  spread  far  and 
wide.  Every  attempt,  however,  to 
solve  her  mysterious  personality 
failed.  She  was  distinctly  two  in 
dividuals,  and  neither  was  communi 
cative. 

She  excited  expectation  and  stimu 
lated  curiosity  by  the  desultory  char 
acter  of  her  recital,  where  her  itiner 
ant  audience  would  have  lost  interest 
in  a  sustained  story.  One  day,  a 
dramatic  incident  was  presented ;  an 
other,  a  romantic  legend  told.  It  was 
a  chime  of  mission  bells — not  yet 
strung  together. 

Bedford's  scheme  had  developed 
beyond  his  most  sanguine  expecta 
tions.  Early  Western  history  became 
the  fashion  of  the  hour,  and  the 
restoration  was  so  vigorously  prose 
cuted  that  he  feared  lest  he  might 
have  to  plead  for  the  ruins. 

He  had  indeed  found  the  pulse  of 
the  people.  But,  in  putting  his  finger 
on  Carmelita's  "keen  sensibilities," 

28 


he  had  set  her  heart  strings  to  vi 
brating.  He  tried  to  persuade  him 
self  that  he  had  done  her  no  harm; 
for  he  had  uniformly  and  consistently 
treated  her  as  a  child,  although  he 
had  long  since  ceased  to  regard  her 
as  such.  Then,  too,  he  had  ever — 
save  once,  perhaps — kept  the  image 
of  the  padre  between  her  and  him. 
Nevertheless,  his  heart  was  troubled. 
When  he  had  gone — and  the  hour  of 
their  inevitable  parting  was  near  at 
hand — would  she  find  compensation 
in  her  noble  ideals?  The  church 
which  she  so  dearly  loved  had 
brought  peace  to  many  a  stricken 
soul,  but  would  it  restore  peace  to  her 
heart?  He  feared  not. 

Bedford  was  not  a  vain  man,  but 
Carmelita  had  innocently  manifested 
that  which  a  more  worldly-wise 
woman  would  have  been  at  pains  to 
have  concealed.  She  had  been  as 
wax  in  his  hands,  and  he  had  probed 
her  innermost  thoughts  in  molding 
her  to  his  purpose.  Of  that  purpose 
he  had  told  her  nothing. 

"Time  enough  to  explain  the  ulti- 

29 


mate  object,  when  the  work  is  done," 
he  reflected. 

But  when  the  new  roof  had  shut 
out  the  stars,  he  knew  that  explana 
tion  could  no  longer  be  deferred. 
Her  work  was  nearly  finished ;  his 
just  begun.  She  had  stirred  sleeping 
Monterey;  he  must  arouse  the  West, 
the  East — the  world.  Already  he  had 
lingered  too  long;  even  now  his  book 
should  be  in  the  press. 

He  very  awkwardly  broke  the  ti 
dings,  and,  for  the  first  time,  found 
her  obtuse. 

"But  if  the  church  if  finished,  why 
need  you  do  any  more  work?"  she 
asked.  "And  why  need  you  go  away 
at  all?" 

Again  he  tried  to  explain : 

"The  Carmel  Mission  is  but  one  of 
many — all  going  to  ruin,  unless  some 
step  be  taken  to  preserve  them." 

She  looked  puzzled. 

"When  you  come  back  from  San 
Francisco" — that  he  was  going  fur 
ther  did  not  occur  to  her,  and  he 
had  not  the  heart  to  undeceive  her — 

30 


"are  we  going  about  from  Mission  to 
Mission,  like  play-actors?" 

"Heaven  forbid!"  he  involuntarily 
exclaimed. 

For  a  moment,  Bedford  was  stag 
gered  by  her  suggestion.  Was  she, 
after  all,  the  unsophisticated  child 
that  he  believed  her  to  be,  or  a 
woman  grown  bold  for  love  of  him? 
But  with  silent  protest  he  disavowed 
the  ugly  thought.  No,  a  thousand 
times  no ! 

"No,  Carmelita,"  he  quietly  an 
swered,  "you  couldn't  tell  this  story 
anywhere  but  right  here;  because  you 
couldn't  feel  it  anywhere  else  as  you 
do  here.  Your  love  for  the  church, 
which  the  padre  so  dearly  loved  that 
he  chose  it  for  his  tomb,  is  the  secret 
of  your  success.  Any  other  Mission 
would  be  to  you  but  a  pile  of  stones, 
and  your  voice  would  grow  cold 
when  you  tried  to  tell  the  people 
about  it,  and  then  you  couldn't  make 
them  listen.  So  I  must  tell  it  to  these 
other  people  in  another  way." 

At  these  words  a  demon  of  jeal 
ousy  broke  loose. 

31 


"It's  my  story,"  she  passionately 
exclaimed,  "it's  my  story!  I  shan't 
let  any  other  caretaker  tell  my  story." 

A  chill  of  foreboding  seized  Bed 
ford.  Had  he  jeopardized  his  tale  by 
publishing  advance  sheets?  He  did 
not  apprehend  that  Carmelita  would 
resent  his  publication  of  the  story 
which  she  had  made  her  own,  but 
how  would  the  public  receive  the 
twice-told  tale?  True,  del  Monte 
was  but  an  atom  in  a  hidden  corner 
of  the  universe,  but — himself  a  trav 
eler — he  knew  that  the  birds  of  pas 
sage  who  alighted  there,  even  for  a 
day,  carried  seed  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  Had  his  work  already  gone 
abroad  as  her  story?  Had  his  care 
fully  guarded  incognito  laid  him  open 
to  the  charge  of  plagiarism?  And, 
where  he  already  owed  reparation, 
could  he  claim  his  own  without  act 
ing  ungenerously? 

By  way  of  answer  to  these  self- 
searching  queries,  a  magnanimous 
thought  obtruded  itself.  He  called  it 
quixotic,  and  tried  thus  to  put  it  away 


32 


from  him.  But  it  was  not  so  easily 
got  rid  of,  so  he  squarely  faced  it. 

"Never  fear,  my  little  maid,"  he 
said,  "no  one  shall  rob  you  of  your 
story.  I  can't  prevent  others  from 
telling  it ;  but  I  can  at  least  promise 
you  that  wherever  it  shall  be  told, 
Carmelita's  name  shall  be  heard  also. 
But  don't  fret  about  any  other  care 
taker;  for  in  all  the  world  there  is 
not  one  but  you  that  could  tell  it. 
Now  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  prom 
ise." 

Her  smile  assented  more  surely 
than  words. 

"No  one  knows  that  I've  been 
here,"  he  said.  "No  one  knows  who 
taught  you  your  story;  that  is  our  se 
cret — yours  and  mine.  Promise  me 
that  you  will  keep  it — until  my  re 
turn." 

She  promised — and  he  left  her  with 
a  kiss  on  her  lips,  the  first  kiss  and 
the  last. 

A  chime  of  mission  bells  pealed 
through  the  air,  awakening  the  slum 
bering  echoes  of  the  angelus  which 
in  the  olden  days  had  called  the  peo- 

33 


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ftPNT  AM  II  f 

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